Pieces
by Cerridwen7777
Summary: In which the boys investigate a spate of dismemberments and a grave robbery. Rated for language and later gorewhumpage. Hurt!Dean Protective!Sammy.
1. Chapter 1

**Funny how the start of a new season of SPN always kick-starts my writing habits. Please review, and as always, I answer all reviews at my blog. And no, I don't own the boys.**

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There's something to be said for the fall in backwoods Maryland_, thought Dean as he floored the accelerator. The trees outside, orange, red, yellow, purple, blurred into a rainbow as the Impala roared down the empty two-lane highway. Tangerine was playing softly on the radio, the gentle guitar licks and harmonies a perfect soundtrack to the vista outside the windows.

Sam was sacked out in the back seat, sprawled awkwardly in sleep. He was on the last leg of recovering from a nasty bout of food poisoning, which Dean may or may not have had something to do with, and was spending most of his time either sleeping or puking. But the worst was over now. At least Dean hoped so. Vomit was not his favorite thing.

_Bored. Bored bored bored._ Dean quirked a small smirk, then slammed hard on the brakes with both feet. The tires of the car squealed in protest, sending up an acrid smoke to mark their passing. Dean couldn't stop a little giggle as he felt Sam's body tumble forward and slam against the back of the seat, accompanied by a heart-felt "Fuck!" from Sam.

"What is it?!" Sam poked his shaggy head into the front seat, scanning for danger, his eyes still bleary with sleep.

"Deer. Came out'a nowhere." Only Dean's supreme self-control stopped him from laughing at the confusion on Sam's face. "You sleep okay?"

Sam grunted as he climbed over the seat to settle in the front. He fisted a hand against one of his eyes and nodded. "Stupid Bambi," he muttered and Dean allowed himself a chuckle. "We nearly there?"

"About ten minutes out." Dean jerked his chin toward Sam's notebook on the floor. "Give me the details again."

Sam groaned out a sigh as he reached for the book, fatigue still obvious in the stiffness of his movements. "On Halloween, a grave in a small rural town is dug up and the body stolen. Grave dates from the 1700s. Since the robbery, there's been a series of strange deaths within a fifty mile radius, all involving dismemberment, all victims were male." Sam sighed again and scraped a palm through his hair. "Looks like it was a professional job. The grave was neatly dug out, square and level, with ceremonial objects found in the area."

"So the body is gone altogether. Wasn't a salt and burn job?"

"They took the whole coffin. Nothing left behind."

"Anything about the corpse? Who was it?" Dean tapped the brakes once as he spotted a weathered road arrow indicating _Ipswich_, and then slowed to turn down a narrow pea gravel road.

"Not much. Sarah Nichols, died May 7, 1715, at the age of 32. Not able to find much beyond that. We'll have to check the local records for cause of death."

"What about our victims?"

"We've got pedestrian versus train, dismemberment. Farmer and a combine, dismemberment. Pilot and a prop 'plane."

"Lemme guess, dismemberment." Dean made a gruesome face, clearly grossed out by the thought.

"And a freak chainsaw accident…well, you get the picture." Sam tapped his fingers on his notebook, chewing his lower lip and trying to ignore the rocking motion of the car that was making his stomach do an uneasy rumba.

Dean guided the Impala around a sharp turn and slowed to a crawl as the small town came into sight. Barely more than a rough-paved main street, there was a line of run-down shops and houses, with a grungy-looking service station and a small, clapboarded church. "Great. Deliverance," muttered Dean, pulling to a stop at the service station.

Sam unfolded himself from the car with a groan at his creaking joints. His stomach gave a little twinge of protest and his mouth began to water, and he swallowed hard against the wave of nausea. Dean looked at him with concern, but Sam waved him on, spitting out a mouthful of thick saliva and resting his forehead against the cool roof of the car.

With one last glance at his brother, Dean ambled toward the bay of the garage, calling out, "Hello?" A grizzled head, topped with a grease-stained trucker cap, poked around the corner of the garage door.

"Yep?" The owner of the head, a portly man in filthy coveralls, walked out to meet Dean, wiping his hands on an equally filthy rag. "Help ya?"

"How ya doin'?" Dean stuck his hand out for a shake, but the mechanic just looked at him with disinterest. Dean gave a little cough and jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Okay. Um, I was wondering if there's a motel around here where we could stay for a few nights."

The mechanic jerked a thumb toward the center of town. "Bed and breakfast up the street."

_Friendly town, _thought Dean, smiling a half-hearted thanks and turning back toward the car. Sam was back in the passenger seat, his eyes closed and his face pale. Dean felt a twinge of pity for his brother, and eased the door of the car shut rather than slamming it. The engine rumbled back to life with a throaty purr, and Dean noted with some satisfaction that the mechanic couldn't resist a look of admiration at the car.

Less than a half-mile up the road Dean spotted a small wooden sign proclaiming, _Ipswich's Own Bed and Breakfast._ He eased the car to a halt and gently punched Sam in the shoulder. "Come on, Barfing Beauty." Sam exited the car without a word, his misery clear but unspoken. Dean again took pity on his brother and carried both of their duffels up to the front door.

The house was an incongruous sight, all fresh paint and eyelet curtains, set between two battered and run-down duplexes. The front porch was set with a pair of wicker rocking chairs, and a wicker table set with a bowl of cut flowers. Dean raised an eyebrow. "This place is kind of fruity, bro. Sure we want to stay here?"

"I'm not sleeping in the car, Dean." Sam's tone would brook no argument, so Dean shrugged and raised a hand to knock. But before he could do so, the door was flung open and the brothers found themselves face to face with what appeared to be an oompa loompa.

But no, it was only a wizened old woman with a high blond dye job and what appeared to be an addiction to spray-on tanning. Her face broke into a wide smile and she grasped Dean's elbow with surprising strength. "Welcome to Ipswich, darlings!" she trilled, pulling Dean over the threshold into a sitting room that smelled of potpourri and mothballs. "Are you here on a colors tour?"

Dean shot a look toward Sam, who had followed them inside and was looking nothing short of miserable. "Yes, love those fall leaves, ma'am," Dean answered, disengaging his arm from the old lady's grasp.

"I'm Joyce Franklin, proprietor of Ipswich's finest bed and breakfast," she gushed, running her hand down Dean's bicep. "How many nights will you be staying with us?"

"Can we just play it by ear, Ms. Franklin?" Sam piped up from the hallway, clearly ready to take his leave of Joyce and collapse into bed.

"Of course, darling, of course." She stepped around Dean and grasped Sam's hand with her own. "And it's Joyce." She gave a wink and a smile, her heavily mascara'd eyelashes fluttering like wings. "But I'm sure you boys would like to clean up before dinner."

At the word 'dinner', Sam turned a distinctly unhealthy shade of pale, so Dean stooped to pick up both duffels. "Yes ma'am, we'd love to get cleaned up."

"Up the stairs, third room on the right, darlings. Dinner is spot on six." Joyce pressed a key into Dean's hand, and then gave his arm a final squeeze. Dean got the distinct impression that it wasn't his arm she wanted to be squeezing.

Puffing under the load, Dean took the stairs two at a time, followed closely by a greenish Sam. He unlocked the door and chucked the duffels in, only to be pushed aside by Sam, who rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door.

With a sympathetic little chuckle, Dean flopped to a seat on one of the twin beds. Both beds were swathed in thick, ruffled bedspreads, with an inconvenient number of throw pillows scattered at the headboard. The wallpaper was a sunny yellow, with a curling pattern of lighter yellow roses twisting and climbing through it.

Dean heard the toilet flush and turned as Sam emerged from the bathroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Wordlessly, Dean dug his hand into Sam's duffel bag and proffered forth a toothbrush, which Sam took with a grumble.

"Surprised that you have anything left to throw up, princess," commented Dean. Sam just shook his head in misery. "But on the plus side, I don't think Joyce will let you get away without seconds and thirds of everything." Sam paled. "Especially spinach casserole."

Dean was answered by the slam of the bathroom door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to those who have reviewed thusfar...you guys are good for my ego. As always, the boys ain't mine. **

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It took some convincing to get Sam to leave the bedroom for dinner but Dean managed it, mostly through threats, belittling and mockery. Sam was pale-faced and grim as Joyce led them through the library to the dining room, which was lavishly set with bone china, crystal glasses and flickering taper candles. His stomach gave a protesting gurgle as he saw the table laden with a huge spread of roast pork, baby potatoes, bread rolls, vegetables and salad. But there was no spinach casserole in sight.

He spent most of the meal poking his fork listlessly at his plate, moving food around but not eating it. When Joyce wasn't looking, Dean would reach across the table and spear Sam's food onto his own plate, though he did turn his nose up at the green bean casserole, which Sam managed to finish on his own.

Dean shoveled the last forkful apple crisp into his mouth with a contented little mumble. "Joyce," he said thickly, "this was fantastic." He drew his linen napkin across his mouth and sighed happily, resisting the urge to unbutton his jeans for more room. "I wanted to ask you, is there somewhere around here that keeps genealogy records? A library, county seat, anything like that?"

Joyce quirked a quizzical, painted-on eyebrow. "I thought you were here on a colors tour." Her comment was heavy with gossip-lust, keen to be privy to the inside information of these two young strangers.

Dean gave Sam a sideways look. "I'm gonna be honest with you, ma'am. We didn't say anything because we don't want the attention, but you seem like the kinda woman who can keep a secret." Joyce's rheumy eyes lit up. "We're reporters." The old woman's mouth formed into an 'o', and Dean knew he had her. "We're here to check out the grave robbery."

"Can you tell us anything about the lady who was buried there?" Sam's voice wavered a bit, but he was showing more life than he had in days. Nothing like a hunt to get the blood moving.

"I can't, darling." Joyce leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. "But you know what might be a better story for you boys…" She paused, clearly waiting for encouragement to continue. When Dean just lifted an eyebrow, she went on. "Have you heard about all the men who have been killed recently?" Sam and Dean shared a look, shook their heads. "They're saying it's Satanists…that they robbed that grave and now they're killing folks for sacrifice."

Dean pursed his mouth, disappointed. Typical townie gossip when it came to this sort of thing. It's always the Satanists.

Joyce hoisted herself up from the table and trotted to the sideboard. From a drawer she produced a large, homemade scrapbook, which she plopped in Dean's lap. "I've kept some clippings which you might find interesting," she purred, clearing away the empty plates so Dean could set the book on the table.

As he flipped through the pages, Dean's face changed. "This isn't exactly bedtime reading, Joyce." The pages were filled with newspaper clippings, police reports, even crime scene photos. "It's a bit…morbid." He squinted a bit at a blurry photo, then recoiled as he realized that he was looking at a lone human leg, complete with dangling tendons, perched in the crook of a gnarled apple tree.

Joyce at least had the courtesy to blush. "It's sort of a hobby, true crime, you know?" She tapped one of the crime scene photos. "I have a friend at the Sheriff's Department, and he copied those for me." The way she said 'friend' was charged with enough hidden meaning that Dean was officially skeeved out.

Sam pulled the book away from Dean. "That does sound like it would make a much better story. Can we borrow this for the evening, ma'am?" His cheeks had regained some color, perhaps due to a mental picture of the old lady and her beau. Joyce nodded assent, her chandelier earrings swinging wildly. She tried to ply the boys with a second helping of cobbler and the promise of a game of canasta, but even Dean was full to the brim, so they bade her goodnight and climbed back up to their room.

"So Joyce and the cop, huh? Bow chicka bow bow," commented Dean, drawing a shiver of disgust from Sam. "And who knew that the old lady was a ghoul? Those photos are pretty gruesome."

Sam lowered himself to a seat on one of the beds, opening the book onto his lap and examining it with a furrowed brow. Suddenly his eyes widened. "Toss me the map out of my bag, would you?" His voice, still a bit raspy from repeated baths of stomach acid, held a tinge of excitement. Dean gave a little smile, glad to see his brother showing a spark of life.

While Sam was scanning the book, mumbling to himself, Dean dodged into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. Tiny seashell soaps lay nestled in a crystal soap dish, and there was a cluster of scented candles atop the toilet. "Could this place be any more fruity?" he muttered. "Any thoughts, Sammy?"

Sam called back from the bedroom. "Well, a skull dug from a grave on All Hallows Eve is considered to bring power to whoever holds it. Maybe we're looking at an occultist?"

"Maybe." Dean dried his face with a fluffy towel that smelled of lavender. "So some pimply Goth kid is trying to create a power object, wreak revenge on everybody who made his life hell, blah blah blah."

"I don't think so." The tone in Sam's voice, suddenly full of foreboding, was enough to draw Dean back into the bedroom.

"Take a look at this." Sam snatched up a marking pen from the bedside table and scribbled five stars on the map. "Five victims, five death sites. See anything?"

Dean squinted at the map, then whistled through his teeth. "Tell me that isn't what I think it is."

"A pentagram."

"Holy shit." Dean dropped to a seat next to Sam, leaning close to look over his shoulder at the map. "This ain't amateur work. This is serious juju."

"Five deaths, sacrifices at five points to create the pentagram…whatever they're doing, it can't be good." Sam rubbed his lower lip with his thumb; Dean could almost see the wheels turning in his brother's head. "Could be a summoning ritual."

"If it is, I don't want to see whose coming for dinner. Whatever it is, it's sure to be Big Bad."

"Five sacrifices is a lot of blood," agreed Sam. He wrinkled his nose and bit the corner of his mouth. "But all the dismemberments looked like accidents. So it's not a person doing the dirty work."

"A demon, maybe?"

"Maybe. 'Cause I don't think the skull alone would be enough to bring that much power, especially to a human."

"Maybe it's not an ordinary skull." Dean sat on his own bed and stripped off his shirt. "Maybe our corpse has some special significance that gives the skull some extra juice?"

Sam didn't reply, just tapped the cap of the pen against his teeth, and then pulled his laptop from his duffel bag.

Dean dug in his pocket for his cell phone. "I'll put in some calls, see if we can get a fix on what this sicko is up to, and who our corpse is." Sam was already clicking away on his laptop, his stomach now forgotten in the thrill of the chase. "Oh, and Sammy?"

Sam made a little noise, still typing away.

"Try to eat something, okay? If we're gonna be in the shit, I can't be worried about you fainting like a little bitch from malnutrition."

Sam's only reply was an extension of his middle finger.


	3. Chapter 3

**Quick note. Stella makes a minor appearance here. If you don't know who she is, feel free to read Normal to meet her. Also, thanks to those who have reviewed. As always, I answer all reviews at my website. And the boys aren't mine. **

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Dean nearly leapt out of his skin when his cell phone shrilled in his ear, waking him out of a sound sleep and sending his heart into a frenzied pounding. He heard Sam give a little moan and turn over in bed, and Dean reached over to grab the phone before it rang again.

"'Lo?" His voice was rough with sleep, and he scrubbed at his eyes for a second before glancing at the clock. Two-thirty a.m. Oh, somebody was going to pay. He untangled his legs from the sheets and kicked off the covers, letting the night air wash over his skin.

"Dean." The voice on the line was familiar, despite being overlaid with a hiss of static. Dean supposed he was lucky to have gotten a signal at all, what with Ipswich being in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere.

"Stella?" Dean sat up, trying to keep his voice low so as not to wake his brother. "Hang on a sec'." He rolled out of bed with a groan and stumbled to the bathroom, managing to stub his toe on the foot of Sam's bed. With a muffled curse he hopped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and sinking to a seat on the edge of the tub, the cool of the porcelain seeping through his boxers. "Are you okay?" He grabbed his foot and tried to massage away the throbbing in his toes.

"I'm fine, Dean, but you may not be." Right to the point. "If I'm right, you're in the middle of some big trouble." Stella's voice was grim.

"Great." Dean ran his hand across his mouth, his stomach twisting with apprehension. The nightlight on the wall cast an eerie glow across the floor, and he reached over to turn on the overhead light.

"I dug through some records, talked to some other hunters about what you've got there. First of all, your corpse, Sarah Nichols? She was tried as a witch in 1715 and executed. The people of the town tied each of her limbs to a separate horse, and then spurred the horses in different directions. Tore her to pieces."

Dean grimaced. "Charming. That explains the dismemberments."

"Yeah, but it gets worse." Stella paused for a moment and Dean could hear the sound of pages flipping. "It's her spirit that's doing the killings, but not on her own. Whoever has her remains commanded her to commit sacrifices at the five points of the pentagram. Then at dawn on the morning after the full moon, a final sacrifice will be committed by the holder of her skull, at the center of the pentagram, where he'd douse Sarah's corpse with the blood of the last victim."

"That's tonight." Dean's heart began to hammer wildly, adrenaline rushing through his veins in a wave. "Jesus. It just keeps getting better." He shook his head slowly. The evil in the world sometimes stunned even him. "So what is this asshat trying to accomplish with all this? Something tells me it isn't your normal, every-day hoodoo."

"It's not. This magic is about as black as you can get. The only reason for this rite is to cause wide-scale destruction and death. The Bubonic Plague? The flu epidemic during the First World War? The 1906 San Francisco Earthquake? Those were all rituals. Your skull-holder it trying to commit mass-murder on a global scale." Stella made a sound of distress. "God only knows where he dug up the specifics of the ritual. Nobody I talked to has any idea where to find the incantation, much less what sort of power objects he'll need. This sort of thing is once in a lifetime, and if your guy can pull it off, we're all in serious trouble."

"Fuck." Suddenly Dean felt bone-tired. Tired of hunting, tired of traveling, and sure as hell tired of getting up in the middle of the night to save the world. "So what do we do?"

"You have to stop the ritual. You have to salt and burn Sarah's bones before the last sacrifice can be committed. If you can destroy her, he'll lose the source of his power. And if I were you, I'd kill him while I was at it, 'cause it seems to me he's a special sort of crazy."

"Shit." Dean dropped his face into his hands, feeling sick to his stomach. "I can't believe this."

"I'm sorry, kid." Stella's voice was sad, thick with compassion. "For what it's worth, I wish it wasn't me that had to tell ya. And the other plus is that you're up against a human, not a demon. Just remember that Sarah's spirit is under his control."

"I know." He straightened and smoothed a hand over his jaw. "Thanks for the intel. I'll be in touch."

"Be safe, Dean."

Dean didn't reply, just hung up the phone and sat silently for a moment, trying to process everything Stella had told him. He stood and took a deep breath, trying to ignore the cold fist in his chest. Turning on the tap, he splashed some water on his face, and to tried to wash the tang of fear out of his mouth. As he looked in the mirror, the face staring back at him was red-eyed and wan, suddenly lined with weariness. _How long do I have to keep doing this?_

He stepped back into the bedroom and reached to flip the light switch. But he felt a strange reluctance to wake Sam so abruptly, so instead he sat on the edge of his brother's bed for a moment. Sam's face was slack and smooth with sleep, like years had been stripped away. He looked like Dean's kid brother again, the kid who had chased Dean around, begging him to play G.I. Joe, the kid who Dean had practically raised.

With a sigh that felt dredged from his toes, Dean softly touched Sam on the shoulder. Sam gave a little groan, then rolled his head to the side and opened his eyes. "What is it?" His voice was soft with sleep.

"We gotta go, Sammy." Dean stood and stepped into a pair of jeans. "It's worse than we thought."

Sam sat up in bed, fully awake and alert now, his expression worried. "What?"

"Stella called. Long story short, our corpse was a witch, and the ritual is basically going to kill a helluva lot of people." Dean reached beneath his pillow and pulled out his buck knife, sheathing it at his waist. "We've got 'til sunrise."

To his credit, Sam didn't demand more answers, just swung his long legs out of the bed and slid into his own pants. The brothers didn't speak any more, just packed their belongings with practiced efficiency. Dean did a quick press-check on his Glock, then holstered it at his hip. The weight of it was a comfort and he felt some of the tension in his shoulders relax.

The house was dark and quiet, the ticking of a clock the only sound. They crept silently down the stairs, stopping only to leave a handful of cash on the table by the front door. Despite the fact that he found her creepy as hell, Sam felt a little sad to leave Joyce without a goodbye or a thank you.

Outside, the moon was full and bright. Crickets were creaking in the grass, and the stars were clear and sharp in the cloudless sky. A warm fall wind rustled the trees, smelling of burning leaves and a faint odor of cow manure.

The rumble of the Impala's engine starting up made Sam wince, but the windows of the house stayed dark and he forced himself to relax. "You gonna give me the rundown, or what?" he asked, stretching his arms forward to work out the kinks in his shoulders. Dean let out a loud breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

"It's bad. It's really, really bad."


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks so much to those who have taken the time to review so far. It really warms my heart and motivates me to continue writing rather than eating a pint of iced cream and watching bad sitcoms. I promise to update soon, tho' the holiday may delay me for a short time. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!**

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Dean knelt in the bracken, one hand on the ground, the other on his knee. His ears were tuned to the sounds of the forest, listening intently for something, though he wasn't sure what. A shotgun was slung across his back, the weight of it like a hand on his spine. His heart was beating just hard enough to make him aware of its steady pulse, to make every sense tingle in the early morning air.

He glanced back at Sam, who was kneeling behind him, and pointed two fingers at his eyes, then pointed off to the right. Sam nodded silent assent and wordlessly slid off in the direction that Dean had indicated. After another few seconds of listening intently, Dean headed off the other way, flitting soundlessly through the thick trees like a shadow.

They had driven an hour and a half, relying on GPS and what Dean called Sam's "freakish Stanford mutant-brain" to point them to the relative center of the pentagram. They had parked the Impala on a dirt two-track road just off a deserted private drive, and now were relying on their own instincts to find what they were looking for. So far, after almost an hour of skulking around the woods, no luck.

The sky was beginning to brighten with a soft pink glow, and Dean felt his guts twist with a sudden fear that they were too late. It was a failure he didn't think he could live with, if Stella was right about the consequences. He quickened his pace, intense need leading him on. And then he heard it.

There was a quiet, muffled cry and the low murmur of a chanting voice. The hair on the back of Dean's neck stood to attention and every nerve sprang to life as adrenaline rushed into his chest. He crept forward, shouldering the shotgun and squinting in the dim light of the coming sun. He reached the tree line and dipped his head to peer through a gap in the leaves.

In a clearing stood a willowy man, rail-thin and pale, with a wispy goatee and close-cropped blond hair. He was standing over the prone form of a young woman, who was bound at the wrists and ankles and gagged with a piece of duct tape. The woman was wriggling and struggling, but clearly wasn't going anywhere. Her face was tear-stained and her eyes were wide, terrified. The man was reading from a small, leather-bound book, speaking quickly but clearly in Latin, though Dean was too rusty to understand the words.

At the man's feet was a naked skull, into which a long dagger had been plunged. Around it was arranged a pile of human remains, mummified with age.

With a breath to steel his pounding heart, Dean stood quickly and stepped out of the brush, leveling the shotgun at the man and barking, "You so much as twitch, I'll blow your fucking goatee across this clearing."

The man froze, staring at Dean with shock.

Dean lifted his chin and shouted, "Sammy!" He moved toward the man, never taking his gaze off of him. "Drop the book and move away from the girl, slowly." The stranger complied, his own eyes never leaving Dean's. Sam suddenly came bounding out of the trees, Colt in hand. "Sammy, grab the girl and get her out of here," Dean ordered, and Sam complied immediately, unsheathing his knife to cut the girl's bonds.

"I know you." The man's voice was quiet, but rich and mellow. His eyes slid from Dean to Sam and back again. "You're the Winchesters."

"Who the fuck are you?" Dean's own voice was hard, cold.

"My name is Gideon." His eyes followed Sam as he helped the girl to her feet. Sam wrapped his arm around her waist and started half-walking, half-carrying her quickly out of the clearing, all the while casting worried glances back at Dean. Gideon's brow furrowed as he watched them go, and he started to take a step after them.

"Go ahead, Shitbag." Dean's voice stopped Gideon cold. "I'm in a bad mood, and I'd love to splatter your brains all over the ground for dragging me out of bed at the ass-crack of dawn."

"Something tells me that was your plan all along." Gideon slowly lifted his hands in an exaggerated shrug. "So what are you waiting for?"

"I want to know why you tried to do this." Dean lowered the shotgun a fraction of an inch, a glimmer of anger rising in his gut. "Why the hell would you want to kill so many people?"

Gideon's face blazed with a sudden fervor. "I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand."

"Try me."

The blond man's eyes narrowed slightly, flashing a brighter blue in the light of the dawn that was now breaking through the trees. "Revival." Dean didn't reply, just stared at him. "Throughout history, men have strayed from God's true will. They act on their own carnal desires, ignoring the commands that God gave to them. But then when disaster strikes, they return to the true way, return to the light, because they are reminded of how fragile mankind is. And now it's time for a new revival."

"Lemme guess, you're gonna be the one to lead this revival, huh? Adulation, followers hanging on every word, lots and lots of cash from people who can't afford to give it? Tough gig."

Gideon's chin lifted with disdain. "Those who God chooses to lead must do his will, no matter the consequences."

Rage flared in Dean's chest, a rage that he seldom allowed to fully bloom. "So you were gonna kill hundreds of people, maybe thousands? Use black magic to do God's will? Doesn't that sound a little, I don't know, _crazy _to you?"

"The ends do sometimes justify the means, though I suppose someone like you could never understand a concept like that. What is a sacrifice of a few, if it can save so many more?"

"You sick motherfuc…"

With a swiftness that took Dean by surprise, Gideon dropped his shoulder and rushed him. Dean managed to squeeze the trigger of the shotgun, which recoiled into his shoulder with bruising force. Gideon hit him in the midsection, sending them both sprawling in the leaves, and knocking the wind out of Dean and the gun out of his grip. He gave a sucking gasp for air, which was cut short as Gideon's fingers closed around his throat.

Dean managed to swing an elbow upward and connect with Gideon's chin, knocking his grip loose. He scrabbled sideways, fingers raking the dirt, reaching for the shotgun, but then Gideon landed a stunning blow on his temple. Stars spun across Dean's vision and he gave a little yelp of pain. He felt a warm tickle of blood flowing from his forehead, painting the vision in one eye red. He tried to struggle as he felt Gideon straddle his legs, but the pain in his head slowed him down and disoriented him. Gideon landed another punch, busting open Dean's lip and sending a bloom of blood down his chin.

Pain turned to shock as he heard the sharp report of a handgun. Heat blazed across his chest and his mouth opened into a silent scream of agony. His head reeled with a wave of dizziness, threatening to steal his consciousness. He tried to push Gideon away but his arms had gone numb and all he could do was flail a little, his fingers grazing against the ground, twitching convulsively.

Gideon's face twisted into a small, triumphant smile, a smug look that Dean wanted to slap right away, if only he could get his body to cooperate. Gideon leaned forward, bringing his mouth close to Dean's ear, his breath warm against the skin. "You're not the only one with a gun, friend." His whisper chilled Dean's blood. Gideon sat back up, regarding him with a cold eye. "You shouldn't have interfered. But you've only delayed the inevitable. You can't prevent the work of God. Your blood will work just as well as the girl's, though I'd venture it's not as pure."

Dean felt a ring of cold steel on his skin as Gideon placed the muzzle of a snub-nosed 38 revolver right between his eyes. "You should ask him to forgive you before you die."

"Wai…wait." Dean's breath hitched in his burning chest as he gasped out the word. "Please. Just…listen to me…" Gideon's face did not change but neither did he pull the trigger. He just regarded Dean with cold, dispassionate eyes. "Do you really think that God wants…you to do this? You're not a killer…"

"Sacrifices are sometimes necessary." Gideon thumbed back the hammer on the revolver and Dean's heart nearly stopped. "I'm doing his work."

"God doesn't…usually condone murder…" Dean's vision was swimming, and the tang of blood was coppery in his mouth. "Just stop and…think…" His breath caught and he hiccupped out a little cry of pain.

"There's no time. The dawn is here."


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay, back on track, at least until the Christmas season catches up with us. For those of you who read Bad and thought, WTF, I was in a mood the other night. Anyhow, please review, then head to the website. Thanks!**

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Sam took the girl as far as the road, urging her to run to the main highway as quickly as she could and flag down help. She cried and clung to him, begging him to stay with her, but he swallowed his guilt and pushed her away, ordering, "Go." She obeyed, weeping loudly and with many backward glances, and Sam turned back into the woods, running at a sprint back the way he had come.

His breath nearly stopped when the silence of the morning was blown apart by the blast of a gunshot. He drew his gun, a Sig Sauer automatic, and quickened his pace, legs burning and screaming as he forced them beyond their limits of endurance, his heart beating an urgent tattoo in his chest. _How many times do I have to do this? _His brain was screaming, replaying all the moments of terror he had felt for his brother over their lifetime of hunting. Flashes of Dean lying in a puddle of water, limp and cold. Of Dean in a hospital bed with a respirator down his throat and a Reaper on his trail. A macabre film of all Dean's blood and tears over many years.

As Sam skidded into the clearing, he saw the blond man kneeling over Dean, straddling his legs. He had a small revolver placed directly between Dean's eyes; the hammer was back, his finger was on the trigger. Dean's eyes were wide and frightened, looking death down the barrel. Sam felt bile rise in his throat at the sight, a visceral rejection of the thought of Dean's fear.

Sam darted forward, reflexively firing his Sig. His first shot connected, punching Gideon in the shoulder and knocking him away from Dean. Gideon's revolver went off with an ear-punishing blast and Dean toppled sideways into the bracken. Gideon staggered to his feet, clutching his arm, and took off at a run. Sam continued firing at the fleeing man, rapidly emptying his clip, but Gideon disappeared into the trees, wailing.

Sam was torn between following and punishing the man, tearing him apart, but his brother's ragged breaths drew him like a moth to a candle. Sam stumbled to a halt at Dean's side and fell to his knees. Dean was trying to push himself to his feet, panting and heaving, and Sam slid an arm around his back to help him up. "The book…" gasped Dean. "Get the book…"

There was a thick stain of black blood on Dean's shirt, smearing and spreading, and a graze wound on his forehead, blood dripping down his face and dropping from his chin. He leaned heavily on Sam, struggling to catch his breath, and Sam's skin crawled at the sensation of his brother's warm blood running down his arm. He stooped to pick Dean up and carry him but Dean tensed and shook his head. "The book," he repeated, refusing to budge until Sam bent and snatched up the small leather book that Gideon had dropped next to Sarah's skull.

"Burn…" Dean ordered, letting go of Sam and sinking to one knee in the dirt. "Burn her…"

"Dean," Sam started to protest, but Dean gave him a look of such power that he gave up immediately. He pulled a box of salt from his pocket and dumped the entire thing over the heaped remains at his feet. A quick shot of lighter fluid, and the body went up with a muffled whoosh and a blast of heat.

"Come on," grunted Sam, again bending to grasp Dean under the arms and lift him to his feet. "Let's get out of here before Blondie grows some nuts and comes back." Dean had the courtesy to force a chuckle, though it came out more like a whimper. Again, he leaned nearly his full weight on Sam, stumbling on his own feet as they headed back toward the car.

Sam kept his arm tight around Dean's back, supremely aware of his brother's breath, the heat of his body, the tightening of his muscles as pain spasmed through him. "Come on," he repeated, wanting nothing more than to pick Dean up and carry him, but knowing that Dean would not allow it. Dean turned his face away from Sam and spit out a mouthful of bloody saliva.

After what seemed to Sam an eternity they came upon the Impala, waiting like a faithful hound where they had parked it. Sam wrenched open the passenger side door and Dean collapsed to a seat with a groan. Sam grasped the collar of Dean's t-shirt and tore it open, searching for the wound. He cringed when he saw it, a small, seemingly harmless divot in Dean's chest, oozing deep crimson blood. He quickly stripped off his own shirt and pressed it to Dean's chest. "Hold that tight," he ordered, and Dean complied with clenched teeth.

Sam sprinted to the driver's side and crammed himself behind the wheel. "We've gotta get you to a hospital," he said breathlessly, turning the ignition key and revving the engine. He reached for the gearshift but was stopped by Dean's touch on his arm.

"No hospitals." Spoken through gritted teeth. Sam opened his mouth to argue but Dean's hand tightened around his wrist. "It's fine. Just get us to a motel and we'll deal with it."

"Dude, you're shot."

"I've had…worse." Dean's breath caught in his throat but his tone would brook no argument. "Just us out of here before that Jesus-freak heals himself and comes after us." Sam stared at him for a long moment. "Sammy, gunshots mean cops. We don't need the attention."

With a growl of pent-up frustration Sammy slammed the Impala into reverse and floored the accelerator, the tires spitting dirt and rocks as he sped back toward the road. Dean shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat, biting at the inside of his mouth as the rough road jostled his hand against the gunshot. "Did you get…the book?" he ground out.

"I got the fucking book, Dean." Sam didn't mean for his voice to come out in an angry bark, but he just couldn't help it. Dean's stubborn streak never failed to piss him off. But his anger evaporated in an instant when Dean let out a strangled cry and grabbed his wrist again with a painful strength. Dean's face was pale and the veins in his neck were standing out.

"Watch the potholes, Sammy," Dean panted. His grip loosened but he didn't release Sam's hand. He forced himself not to look at the bloody rag that used to be Sam's t-shirt. "Something tells me we haven't…seen the last of Gideon." When in agony, change the subject.

"What happened, anyway?" Sam couldn't resist the question. "How did he get the drop on you?"

Dean gave a rough laugh. "Classic Bond movie mistake. Let the villain explain his evil plot instead of just blowing his brain out when you get the chance."

"That's not like you. You're mister shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later." Sam pulled out onto the main highway and stomped the accelerator to the floor. "Why?"

Dean gusted out a shaking breath. "I just wanted to know why somebody would do something like that. Something so sick."

"Getting soft there, brother," Sam joked without mirth. "You've never cared before about the reasons."

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was soft, and Sammy shot him a worried look, his stomach clenching. "Do you think the ends sometimes justify the means?"

"What are you talking about?"

"All the things we've killed. The _people _we've killed. Does the fact that we did it for a good reason make it okay?" There was a strange pleading sound in Dean's voice, a frightening vulnerability in his eyes.

Sam couldn't reply around the lump in his throat.


	6. Chapter 6

**The quote that starts this chapter is from Warren Zevon's song, Splendid Isolation. It surely doesn't belong to me. Neither do the Winchesters. Please review, and thank you to all who have done so thusfar.**

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_I'm putting tinfoil up on the windows_

_Lying down in the dark to dream_

_I don't want to see their faces_

_I don't want to hear them scream_

_-Splendid Isolation_

By the time Sam found a motel, Dean was giddy and half-delirious with pain and blood loss. He didn't even protest when Sam hoisted him into his arms and carried him into the room, depositing him gently on one of the beds. Dean's hair was glued to his forehead with sweat and Sam gently smoothed it back away from the warm, damp skin.

Dean sank back into the pillows, the pained creases in his forehead smoothing slightly as the haze of unconsciousness began to sneak over him. He made a little sighing moan, closing his eyes and nestling deeper into the pillow.

"Don't go to sleep, Dean," ordered Sam. He reached out and pinched the inside of Dean's bicep. Dean's nose crinkled up and he winced away from Sam's touch, opening his eyes and blinking lazily.

"Stop pawing at me," he mumbled, batting Sam's hand away. "Christ."

"No sleeping. Not yet." Sam dashed into the bathroom and turned on the tap, running the hot water until it steamed, misting the mirror and obscuring the fear in his eyes. He had a smear of Dean's blood on his jaw and he swiped it away with his hand. He grabbed the towels from the bar on the wall and ducked them in the water, wincing as he scalded his fingers. When he glanced out of the bathroom he saw that Dean's eyes were closed again and he barked, "Dean!"

"_What!_" Dean's tone was pure irritation. He opened his eyes a fraction, blearily searching for Sam. Sam gathered the wet towels in his arm and hurried back to the bedside.

"No sleeping," he repeated, settling to a seat on Dean's bed. "Now let me look at that bullet hole." He pulled his now-crusty shirt away from Dean's chest and softly wiped the hot, wet towel across the crimson skin. The wound, just below Dean's left clavicle, was now just oozing blood, a slow welling that spread by millimeters over Dean's chest and dribbled across his tricep. Sam looked up at his brother's face and suppressed a shudder. The whites of Dean's eyes shone out from a mask of rusty red blood that had dried across his forehead and cheeks, a kabuki mask of gore.

Tearing his eyes away from the sight, Sam gently slid his hand behind Dean's shoulder, feeling for an exit wound. His stomach tightened when he didn't find one. "Bullet's still in you, man."

Dean's face changed when he heard that, a flicker of fear racing through, then disappearing back behind his mask of calm. "Fuck." He shut his eyes and shook his head slightly. "Just do it."

"Dude, please let me take you to the hospital."

"Sam." The word was an order, and Sam shut his mouth, grinding his teeth at Dean's bull-headedness. He could see their father so clearly in Dean in these moments. He bent to dig through the duffel bag until he found their battered, well-used first aid kit, a beat-up tackle box with stickers of classic rock bands lovingly applied by Dean himself, in a younger time. Cracking open a bottle of rubbing alcohol, he doused a small, double-edged penknife, and a set of long forceps that Dean had stolen from a hospital they had passed through once upon a time.

"Dean…" Sam made one last plea, but Dean responded by turning his face away toward the wall and closing his eyes, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Sam grasped the knife and placed the point against Dean's skin, then quickly enlarged the bullet hole as gently as he could. Dean's muscles tensed but he didn't make a sound as blood welled fresh and ran down to pool in the crook of his arm. Sam willed his hand not to shake as he took the forceps and inserted them into the wound, fishing for the bullet. Dean gave a strangled groan, fists clenching, but he didn't flinch away. Sam had to swallow a surge of bile in his throat as he dug deep into Dean's muscle, searching.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sam felt the forceps grind against something hard and unyielding. Carefully but quickly he drew the bullet out and dropped it on the bedspread. "Hold tight, Dean," he said quietly, wiping away the blood, then pouring a liberal amount of rubbing alcohol over the wound. Dean again stifled a cry, grinding his teeth. "Sorry." Sam didn't feel like he could apologize enough, so he hurriedly threaded a needle with pilfered surgical silk.

Swiftly but neatly, Sam stitched the inner layer of the wound, closing the muscle, and then closed the skin over it. Dean was still as stone, pale and sweating. Sam took a clean, wet towel and gently washed Dean's face, scrubbing the blood away. "You can't go to sleep yet, Dean. Not until I'm sure the bleeding has stopped."

"Okay, mom," snipped Dean wearily, not opening his eyes. Sam gave a grim smile. As long as Dean was making snarky jokes, things must still be okay. Sam spread a thick layer of antibiotic cream over Dean's wound, then laid down a square of gauze and secured the edges with tape. Dean sighed softly, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

Sam bent his face close to Dean's to inspect the graze on his forehead. It was shallow, a furrow on the skin from the eyebrow to the hairline, but appeared to be relatively minor. He cleaned it as gently as he could, tweezing out bits of dirt, and then applied a few butterfly bandages.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was soft, woozy.

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Do you ever think about them?"

"Think about who?" When Dean gave a little shiver, Sam pulled the blankets up over his chest, tucking him tight under the covers.

"Sometimes I can hear them in my head, especially at night. Like that girl, the vampire." Dean's eyes were still closed, but his forehead was creased with distress. "They scream, they cry. They beg me not to kill them, tell me that I'm making a mistake."

Sam felt sick to his stomach.

"But I always do it." Dean's voice was weaker, creeping unconsciousness stealing some of the strength from his voice. "'Cause it's my job."

"Dean, just try to relax, man."

"I just wonder sometimes…" Dean gave a deep, shuddering sigh, then continued, "…if we're going to pay for it all."

Sam didn't reply, just bit the corner of his mouth to stop his lip from trembling, and softly wiped the now-lukewarm cloth over Dean's sweaty forehead. He wouldn't tell Dean that sometimes he heard the screams too, the sharp memories of the people he himself had killed.

He asked himself the same questions.

And he had no answers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for the wait on the update, ya'll. I appreciate your patience. And thanks to those who have reviewed. As always, the boys aren't mine.**

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The only sound in the room was Dean's quiet breathing. He was sprawled in the bed, arms and legs akimbo, tangled up in the sheets and blankets. He had always been a wild sleeper, much to Sam's distress when they had to share a bed. But now he was still and calm, sleeping so quietly that Sam felt compelled to leave his perch on a ratty wing-backed chair to check on him every few minutes.

Convinced that Dean was just sleeping and not actually dead, Sam settled back into his chair and gave a loud and gusting sigh. The events of the morning had left him tense and unsettled, which in turn left him sore and irritable once the bliss of adrenaline wore off. His stomach was still queasy, giving the occasional lurching gurgle whenever food commercials flashed across the muted television set.

Finally he couldn't stand the tension anymore and decided he needed a distraction. He wasn't so into the program on the TV, a repeat of Doctor Who, so he knelt to dig through his duffel bag. His fingers brushed against soft leather and he withdrew Gideon's book. A flash of foreboding shivered his spine but he shrugged it aside and ran his hands over the flaking cover, tracing the silvery embossing with a finger.

He flipped the book open, scanning the spidery writing, line after line of Latin. His eyebrows rose at the detail and depth of the writing, his stomach clenching. A lot of the words he wasn't familiar with, but he knew enough to grasp what the incantations were about, what they were intended for. This wasn't amateur-hour. This was the big time.

A little mumble from Dean drew Sam's attention right away. Dean was awake, knuckling at his eyes and shying away from the sunlight creeping through the blinds. His hair was smashed down, bangs fringing his eyebrows, and there was a line across his cheek from the pillow. Snatches of memory strobed through Sam's mind, of his brother as a little boy, squinty-eyed with sleep and rising early to fix Sam's breakfast.

"What time is it?" Dean rasped, voice thick.

Sam glanced at his watch. "Three-thirty." He stood and crossed to Dean's side, and reached to lay the back of his hand on Dean's forehead, but Dean slapped him away with a growl. "Get off."

Sam scowled. "At least let me look at the bullet-hole."

Dean again blocked his hand, turning his shoulders away. He arched his back, stretching like a cat. "Food first." Sam stopped short, looking at his brother open-mouthed. Dean looked back, eyebrows rising. "Dude, I haven't eaten all day. And I need to build my strength."

Sam chortled a little laugh. "You're something else, man."

"Tell me about it." Dean sat up, wincing slightly, and stretched a little more gingerly. "But keep an eye out. I'm not sure we've seen the last of Churchy McJesus. I don't want you getting caught short because you've got your nose stuck in that book." He jerked a thumb toward the leather book resting on the foot of the bed.

Sam smiled wryly and shook his head once more, then shrugged into his jacket and jammed the little book into his pocket. "I still don't understand this whole thing. To kill so many people for no good reason."

"You know what they say about religion," Dean replied, then fell silent.

"What do they say?" prompted Sam.

"You know, about religion causing all the wars and stuff."

"To be fair, it's not religion that causes war. It's religious people." Sam paused, wanting to bring up Dean's comments from earlier, but Dean just stared silently at him, so Sam just gave up and changed the subject. "Do you really think he'll come after the book?"

Dean scratched at the stubble on his jaw for a minute. "You didn't see the look in his eyes, Sam. He's 100 certified wacko. He'll come for it." He fixed Sam with a squinty-eyed glare. "And I can't guarantee your safety if I'm still hungry when he does."

Sam zipped his jacket to his chin and jammed the leather book into the back pocket of his jeans. With a shake of his head and one last sideways look at his brother, he stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him, jiggling the knob a few times to make sure it was locked. On the drive in he had spotted a diner around the corner and about half a block away, so he set out at a brisk walk, bracing his shoulders against the cool autumn breeze.

The restaurant was small and a bit dingy, but they had attempted to brighten it up with cheery plastic flowers and bright colored dishes. A dour-looking old man with flyaway hair and a scowl sat at the cash register, a Greek newspaper propped up in front of him. He grunted and gestured Sam to the counter, where a doughy waitress, whose graying brown hair was tucked into a messy bun, greeted him. She licked the nib of her pencil and poised it over her pad, and Sam ordered a cheeseburger and onion rings for Dean. Still feeling slightly queasy, he ordered oatmeal with butter and brown sugar for himself.

Sam settled onto a stool at the counter as he waited for the food, and pulled the book out of his pocket. He flipped through the pages again, stopping here and there as he spotted words or phrases he recognized. He felt chilled again as he read, realizing that every incantation in the book was intended to maim, kill, or destroy. Who could have written this book? And where did Gideon find it? His mind was buzzing with questions.

"Why so glum, chum?" The waitress' smoke-roughened voice startled Sam back to reality. "You look like your dog died, hon."

Sam shook his hair out of his eyes. "I'm okay." She lifted an eyebrow at him. "My brother's just sick, is all. Been a long day."

"Well, aren't you just the sweetest thing, taking care of your brother." The waitress smiled toothily. She glanced backward at the fry cook. "Nothing like family, eh?" She turned and ladled some soup from a tureen into a Styrofoam cup. "Some soup for your brother. On me."

Sam smiled a thank you and stood to receive the packaged food, which she had crammed into a large brown paper bag. He reached out with a twenty-dollar bill but she waved him away, drawing a snort of disapproval from the old man at the cash register. Instead, Sam threw a ten down on the counter as a tip, and tucked the bag into the crook of his elbow.

As he stepped back out into the cold his nose caught the scent of smoke, floating like burning leaves on the wind. At first he thought it was just that, someone burning off fall leaves, but then he heard the distant wail of sirens. His heart rate accelerated and a shot of adrenaline clenched his stomach.

Something was wrong.

He quickened his pace back toward the motel, trying to look casual while feeling anything but. As he caught sight of the room where he had left Dean, his breath stopped. Thick, acrid smoke was pouring from the window, roiling up around the eaves, writhing like a living thing. He broke into a sprint, tossing the food to the side, shouting, "Dean!"

The windows of the room were lit with an orange glow and Sam could feel the heat shimmering outward. He lifted his forearm to shield his eyes and with one solid, desperate thrust of his foot, kicked the locked door open. "Dean!" he yelled again, getting a lungful of smoke for his trouble. He couldn't see anything through the oily haze, which burned his eyes until they streamed tears.

Sam began to grope forward, ignoring the heat that seared his skin, singed his hair.

"Dean!"


	8. Chapter 8

**I _know _it's a short chapter. But it was either this or no update at all, and I felt terrible about making you wait. I promise, the next will be longer. Please review, dears. Thanks to all who have done so thusfar. **

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He never knew that anything could be so hot. It was skin-searing, blister-forming, hair-singing heat.

Sam stumbled blindly forward, arms outstretched, gagging at the thick smoke coating his throat and the inside of his nose. The heat was intense, and through tearing eyes he could see a curtain of fire climbing the walls of the room. He opened his mouth to scream for Dean again, but only caught another lungful of smoke. He tripped and fell to a knee, body shrieking for air. His groping hands found the fabric handle of one of the duffel bags and he looped it over his wrist.

He started to crawl deeper into the room, clutching blindly, trying to find the bed, trying to find his brother. But then he suddenly felt a hand clutch his ankle and yank him backward into the fresh air and the sunlight, the bag bumping along after him.

Sam slapped his palms over his face, trying to rub the sting of the smoke out of his streaming eyes. He squinted into the light, eyes roving like a searchlight for Dean's face, but only found the mustachioed face of a bulky fireman staring down at him. "What the hell you doin', fella?" The fireman gripped his shoulder, shaking it slightly when Sam didn't reply.

"My brother," choked Sam, flailing an arm toward the room, which seemed now to be fully engulfed by roaring flame. The fireman, whose turnout coat had the name Palazzo stenciled across the back, turned swiftly and shouted to his comrades, who thundered up like the cavalry and disappeared into the smoke. Palazzo hooked a hand under Sam's armpit and lifted him to his feet, half-dragging him back to the ladder truck, where he dropped him to a seat on the rear bumper.

Sam rested his arms on his knees and gave himself over to chest-rattling coughs. He coughed his throat ragged, then sat quietly, sucking air and staring back toward the motel, his heart constricting in his chest. Palazzo knelt in front of him and, with a gentleness that contradicted his meaty hands, slipped an oxygen mask over Sam's nose and mouth. The cool flow of air soothed Sam's burning throat and he forced himself to breathe slowly, in and out, soft and smooth.

He felt the sting of impending tears but gulped them back, dashing a hand across his face, which was grimy with soot. Part of him wanted to sprint back into the room, save his brother himself, but common sense prevailed. He watched, silent, waiting for what, he did not know.

He watched as several firemen retreated from the smoky room, shaking their heads at Palazzo, gesturing and shouting, though Sam couldn't hear their words. His heart skipped to double time and his breaths turned painful around the lump in his throat. Time seemed to constrict, to shrink to interminable seconds that refused to tick by, refused to let him know whether his brother was alive.

He was startled, therefore, when his phone blared at his hip. He snatched at it, fumbled and almost dropped it, then stopped short when he saw the caller-ID. _Dean._

"Dean!" he gasped into the phone, his heart climbing into his throat. "Where are you?"

"Do you have the book?"

The voice unfamiliar.

"Who is this?" Sam didn't really need to ask, but his muddled, now-frightened brain felt sluggish and hazy. "Where's Dean?"

"You don't need to know who I am. All you need to know is that while your brother is alive for now, he may not remain that way if you don't do exactly what I tell you."

"What do you want?" Sam forced his voice to remain steady, but his hands were trembling with a palsy of fear. "Where is he?"

"I want you to meet me in the clearing. The clearing where you stole my book and _shot _me." Gideon's voice strained on the word, as if he still couldn't believe that Sam done it. "You meet me there with the book, and I won't kill your brother."

"You know I'll kill you if you hurt him." There was steel in Sam's voice, as though Gideon's threat had wiped out all his fear, all his uncertainty. "I'll bring you the book, but if you hurt so much as a hair on his head…" He didn't need to finish his own threat.

"Tonight at midnight. Alone." The phone went dead in Sam's ear. The whole conversation would have been laughable, as though Gideon had seen far too many conspiracy films, but Sam didn't have an ounce of mirth in him. There was just concern, fear, and anger. No, not anger, but a burning rage, a protective wrath.

He knew he would do it, too. And for once, the thought didn't frighten him. Sam was never one to take killing lightly. Indeed, every human he had ever had to kill haunted him. But this one? He wouldn't lose any sleep over this one.

With a glance toward Palazzo, Sam slipped away from the rumbling fire truck, glad to take leave of its bouquet of diesel fumes. He hooked his elbow around his smoke-stained duffel bag and duck walked toward the Impala. He chucked the bag into the back seat, and collapsed into the front and. Sending a silent apology to Dean, he cracked open the steering column with the screwdriver that was always rolling around under the driver's seat. A quick touch of two wires and the engine grumbled to life.

Sam looked over his shoulder long enough to see Palazzo's startled face, then floored the accelerator, reversing at high speed. He slammed the gearshift into drive and left twin streaks of rubber on the pavement, headed for the highway.


	9. Chapter 9

**Sorry the update took so long, I got distracted watching old tapes of Third Watch. Oh, fandom, what have you done to me?! Please review, kids, and as always the boys aren't mine. Gideon is, but who would want him?**

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The night was crisp and cold, silent except for the crackle of leaves under Sam's boots. Clouds obscured the sky, leaving him little light to find his way through the underbrush, much less do so quietly. He was loaded for bear and armed to the teeth, the weight of his weapons a comfort at his waist. Gideon's book was jammed into his back pocket. He had his small pistol, a Walther PPK, gripped tightly in his palm, the metal warm with his body heat.

Most people find the deep forest ominous at night, full of hidden eyes and creeping things. But it was the Winchesters' element. The boys had walked through more dark forests than most kids do movie theaters, and Sam found something nostalgic about the smell of pine and decaying leaves. Above him, tree limbs creaked and moaned in the breeze, and far off an owl called out in an eerie, almost-human wail.

He crept forward, instinct tugging at his stomach and telling him danger was close. He tightened his grip around his gun, fingers whitening at the knuckles. He could see a break in the trees in front of him, and a flash of movement froze him where he stood. Through the gently swaying branches he could see Gideon, face grim, body language agitated. He was pacing, gesturing wildly, but Dean was nowhere in sight. Sam skulked forward, silent and slow, but then a sight brought him to a stone stop.

Dean was propped against a tree trunk, listing slightly to port, held up only by the rope looped around his neck, and over a tree branch. He was shirtless, and Sam could see the blood-soaked bandage just below his collarbone. His hands were tied behind him, the twine digging furrows into his wrists, and his face was bloody and pale, peaked with the pallor that only comes from weakness and blood-loss. His eyes were nearly closed, the irises shining like half-moons of color against the whites.

Sam tasted blood in his mouth and realized that he had bit down on his tongue, swallowing a howl of rage. He crouched at the edge of the clearing, eyes now locked on Gideon. He slowly raised his hand, staring down the slim line of the barrel, his sights set solidly on the blond man, his enemy. He had been indexing the gun, his finger resting on the gun barrel, safe from an accidental pull of the trigger, just like his father had always taught him. But now he changed his grip, slipping his finger through the gentle curve of the trigger guard, and he got that split-second rush of power that he always did when his skin brushed the cold metal of the trigger.

But there was that voice, that whisper, tickling at the back of his mind. _Shooting a man unawares is wrong_, it said, berating. _You're a better person than that…only cowards ambush their prey. _Sam tried to shake it off, tightened his finger imperceptibly on the trigger, squeezing, squeezing ever so lightly, pressure building as the hammer threatened to fall. He dropped his eyes to the ground for a moment, annoyed at his wavering will.

But when he looked back up his stomach lurched.

Gideon was staring right at him. Worse yet, he was pointing a large revolver, more cannon than handgun, at Dean's temple, his finger on the trigger. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were wild. "Come out," he snarled, nearly vibrating with tension and rage. "I see you, come out."

Sam stepped out of the trees, leveling his gun again at Gideon's head. "I've brought the book, like you asked. Step away from my brother and it's yours." With his free hand he plucked the book from his jeans pocket and held it up. "Let's not do anything crazy, here."

"Throw it down." Gideon's order was terse, his voice thrumming with tension and, Sam thought, fear. "Throw it on the ground."

"I'd feel a lot better if you'd stop pointing that gun at my brother, first."

Gideon's only reply was to press the gun barrel directly against the white skin of Dean's forehead. Dean's head lolled to the side, tightening the rope around his throat.

Sam's heart gave a galloping heave. "You don't want to do this." He had to try, had to attempt to reason with this maniac, even though part of him knew it was an exercise in futility. "Listen to me. I know you didn't kill those other people; it was Sarah. You haven't crossed that line yet." He sought Gideon's eyes, trying to radiate sincerity, concern. "Killing somebody…it's not something you can take back."

"What would someone like _you _know about death?" Gideon fisted one hand on his hip, his pose petulant and childlike. His other hand was pure business, however, what with the gun pressed to Dean's temple.

"I think about it every day of my life." Sam glanced for a split-second at his brother's pale, blood-painted face. "I've seen more death than anybody should have to, and I've killed more people than my fair share. So trust me." His face hardened. "I know what I'm talking about."

"Sometimes sacrifices have to be made, for the greater good." The earnestness in Gideon's voice, juxtaposing with the tool of death in his hand, made Sam sick to his stomach.

"What do you think you're going to accomplish with this? Killing innocents? What good can come of it?"

"Their deaths will bring in the new age, the new revival. They will be tools of God. They'll be received as martyrs. Their reward will be great." Gideon's eyes narrowed. "I'm doing them a favor."

"You're insane."

"The righteous are always persecuted," Gideon replied piously. "Only in the end days will you understand your error. And then it will be too late." And then his face changed. A strange smile started behind his eyes and spread to his face, creasing his eyes in a dangerous way. "Though maybe it would be a gift if I allowed your brother to be the first martyr to walk through the gates…"

Without another thought, Sam squeezed the trigger. The ear-blasting retort of the shot, the gunpowder tang in his nostrils was gut wrenching, as it always was, though he hid it well. Gideon dropped like a stone, no, like a puppet with strings cut. Sam didn't have to check him to know that he was dead before he hit the ground. He dashed forward, vaulting over the body, and dropped to one knee at Dean's side.

"Dean!" He laid a hand gently on Dean's shoulder and shuddered at the icy feel of his brother's flesh. "Dammit, Dean." He stripped off his jacket and draped it across Dean's chest, then reached out to unwrap the noose from his neck. He felt Dean quiver against him, gathered him into a tight hug and rubbed his hands briskly up and down Dean's back, trying to will warmth back into the cold body. "Come on, man. You with me?"

"Burn it." Dean's voice wasn't much more than a tiny, croaking whisper. "The book, burn it." Sam felt a split-second flash of anger, but rather than argue, he tossed the book into the dirt and doused it with lighter fluid. A flick of his bic and the deed was done, and Dean sagged back against Sam's arm. "Is he dead?"

Sam glanced at the corpse of the blond man, sprawled awkwardly on a bed of pine. Gideon's eyes were blood-black, the sockets filled from the wound in his forehead. "He's a doornail," replied Sam, looping an arm around Dean's back and lifting him to his feet. "Let's get out of here."

"Sammy?" Dean leaned heavily on Sam's shoulder. Sam 'ummed' in reply. "What took you so fucking long?"


	10. Chapter 10

**I put up a short chapter last night to close this story out, but it was really done in a very half-assed sort of way. I felt guilty for waiting so long before updating, and then felt guilty for half-assing it. So I took it down and reworked it. Here is the really-for-real last chapter of Pieces. Thanks to all who have reviewed.**

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"Fuck!" Dean's shout was gruff, and he slapped Sam's hands away. "Fuckin' A, man!"

"Sorry." Sam was trying to be gentle as he wiped the dried blood away from Dean's bullet wound, but the crusted grime was taking some elbow grease to remove. "There's some Darvocet in the Impala, do you want it?" He had all the overhead lights in the motel room on, but still had to squint to see the extent of Dean's wounds.

"No." Dean clenched his jaw. "Just get it over with, ya non-bedside-manner-havin' motherfucker." Sam doused a gauze pad with hydrogen peroxide and swiped it over Dean's shoulder, trying not to hear the little hiss of pain that Dean sucked through his teeth. There was a slight red rash on Dean's throat, remnant of the noose that had rubbed the skin raw, and Sam swabbed it with the gauze, just for good measure.

"Hey Dean." Distraction was always a worthy pain-technique, Sam decided, and getting Dean talking would make the whole uncomfortable business of patching him up go quicker. "Why did you want the book burned? Seems like something we could have used, maybe passed it on to Bobby. That kind of information could be worth something, you know?"

Dean's forehead crinkled. "That sort of thing is bad news, Sammy. Even if you try to use it with the right intentions, somehow things always turn out wrong. Only bad things can happen with shit like that."

"Not if you know what it is, though. I mean, you can be on guard from letting it corrupt you, use it in the right way."

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely, Sam. That sort of power won't ever bring any good to anybody, no matter what their intentions are." Dean scratched at his eyebrow with his thumb, not meeting Sam's eyes.

"I guess so," Sam admitted. "Wrong hands, and all that." Sam tossed the bloody gauze over his shoulder and reached for a roll of clean bandage. "I guess I just hate to see knowledge go to waste like that."

"The devil you know is safer than the devil you don't, Sam. You can't just forget once you dip into evil like that, and it marks you. You wish you had never seen it, never learned it, but you can't go back."

The tone in Dean's voice made the hair on the back of Sam's neck stand up, but he didn't let it show. Dean spooked too easily. Instead, Sam gently laid a thick pad of gauze under Dean's collarbone, and lifted Dean's hand to hold it in place while he taped it. "You say that like you know."

"Helluva lot of stuff went on while you were at school, Sammy." Dean's radar had gone up, detecting Sam's concern, and he flipped immediately into full-on stoic-sarcasm mode. "Some of us lived real life, instead of hiding out in the library like pussies." He shrugged away from Sam's touch and picked up a roll of bandage, awkwardly trying to wrap his own shoulder.

Sam snatched the bandage back, skewering Dean with a look. "Knock it off, Dean." He wrapped Dean's wound quickly, a little more roughly than he meant to. Dean flinched slightly, which immediately stopped Sam. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Dean's jaw muscles tightened as he stared down at his hands, which were clenched in his lap. The two sat silently, Sam watching Dean, Dean avoiding Sam's eyes. Finally Dean couldn't stand the quiet. "Thanks, by the way," he mumbled.

Sam's eyebrows rose. "For what?"

"For coming after me. That Gideon nut would have air-conditioned my head if you hadn't drilled him. It was a good shot."

"I'll always come for you, Dean." Sam spoke around a lump in his throat, reaching to grasp Dean's bicep.

"Oh, for fuck sake." A pillow winged toward Sam's head and he ducked just in time. "Can't we have one night with no Hallmark moments? Christ."

Sam could only shake his head as he stooped to pick up the pillow from the floor. Some things just never change, but somehow he knew he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
